


To Share (Cake) is to Care

by spinel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Getting Together, Japanese Christmas Cake, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 14:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17266175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinel/pseuds/spinel
Summary: “Howdy, Hanzo.” McCree smiles sunnily. “I'm guessin' Athena didn't give you a heads up. My quarters—all of Wing 3's quarters are flooded. Angela's with Genji, Lena's in Angela's room, Lúcio and Hana are in the break room, Torbjörn and Reinhardt both snore like you wouldn't believe, Zenyatta's in Genji's room, and Athena won't let me use the training room for a nap.”It takes a moment, but then Hanzo's eyes narrow. “Athena told you I had a futon.”





	To Share (Cake) is to Care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CyberpunkDreamland (scarletprophesy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletprophesy/gifts).



> I hope you had great holidays, PunyGod1185! Your prompts were an absolute joy to work with. I went with 'OH NO THERE IS ONLY ONE BED' and tried to include as much ridiculousness as possible, including some nsfw. Happy 2019 x
> 
> Written for the Target Practice Discord server Holiday exchange. A million thanks to everyone on there for their continuous encouragement.
> 
> I have decided to go with with prosthetics-legged Hanzo instead of chicken-legged Hanzo, even though it is not canon (because it is the holidays and I do what I want, _mea culpa_.)

“Shit.”

McCree can smell the standing water, and it isn’t pleasant. He tries his thumb on the keypad scanner, and the lock on the door to his room is thankfully still intact. The inside... isn’t.

 _“Shit_. Athena, is the entire wing affected?”

“Affirmative, Agent McCree.” Athena sounds frustrated. “Agent Lúcio has officially reported and logged the issue just now. The leak is due to compromised water pipes running along all floors and ceilings in Wing 3. I am currently working on isolating the water mains to mitigate the damage.”

McCree sighs and wades his way to his bed. Everything smells wet and funky _,_ even though the water is clear _._ In some places, it is at least an inch deep, and it’s a good thing his boots are waterproof. What’s good enough for blood should be good enough for water, anyways. The water is still running in slow rivulets down the wall opposite the door, and drips steadily from the light fixtures.

“Don’t tell me the entire Watchpoint is on one water switch?”

“Affirmative.”

“And Mercy is with Genji, and needs running water for his repairs.” Their resident cyborg is being patched up, his cybernetics halfway fried from some new tech developed God-knows-where. It fried Lúcio’s speakers too, and Hanzo’s fancier arrows. They were lucky Lena had been away; McCree doesn’t want to think about the effect the tech could have had on her accelerator. He hasn’t ever been so thankful for his gun and the legacy tech in his left arm. Sometimes, old school pays off.

“Affirmative, Agent McCree.”

McCree can’t even sit on his bed; because it’s snug up against the wall, his entire bedding is soaked, including his fancy memory foam pillow. He prods it and it all but gurgles. He’s going to have to get a new one. “Fuck.” He’s been up for thirty hours, he’s sore, he’s dirty, Winston has very kindly agreed to a debrief in twenty hours instead of immediately, and he can't even take a fucking shower or lie down for a nap. “Athena, anyone in the break room?”

“Agent Lúcio has just staked a claim on the sofa. The armchair should still be available.”

McCree groans. “He's gonna be tinkering something fierce with his electronics, and Hana's probably going to help if she's not live-streaming.”

“Agent D.Va is already on her way to the break room, Agent McCree,” Athena says, apologetic.

“I still have access to Genji's room?”

“Affirmative. But please note that Agent Genji's room offers no bedding facilities, and his lavatory facilities have been modified.”

“For cryin' out loud _—_ ” 

“The monk Zenyatta's presence in Agent Genji's quarters may also be a deterrent.”

McCree winces. “I get it, I get it. Damn, I didn't even know he'd arrived.”

“It is the festive season, Agent McCree,” Athena says severely. “Today is the 25th of December.”

“Shit, is it?” McCree removes his hat and runs a hand down his face. “No wonder Zenyatta's here. The mission overran, then. Didn't even realise.”

“You were occupied,” Athena concedes gracefully. “May I suggest _—_ ”

“If you were gonna suggest the training rooms, I'm way ahead of you, darlin'. The mats'll do until tomorrow.”

“That is not what I was about to suggest.” If an AI could roll their eyes, McCree is pretty sure Athena would be doing it right this moment. “Agent Shimada's room is in Wing 5 and remains dry.”

McCree raises an eyebrow at the blank screen in his room, thankfully still operating.

“I would suggest you take a towel and a change of clothes,” Athena continues primly.

“ _Et tu_ , Athena,” McCree mutters. “He has a spare bed? Didn't know we had quarters big enough for that.”

“Agent Shimada has a futon.”

“Jesus fuckin' Christ. 'Course he does and 'course you know about it. You at liberty to offer it?” McCree has already gone to his closet. He stuffs a shirt, pants, boxers and socks into the spare kit bag sitting on his top shelf, then adds another t-shirt and sweatpants for good measure. He makes sure to grab the small tool kit on his desk.

“Agent Shimada explicitly made me aware of his bedding arrangements. I believe he would not be adverse to me sharing this information with you.”

“'Beddin' arrangements',” McCree mutters as he trudges through to the bathroom. Towel, toothbrush, and razor. He grabs them all by rote, and tries not to glance in the mirror as he does. He's still filthy from their mission in Algeria: dusty, muddy, and the gash on his face is bleeding sluggishly. He's pretty sure he now smells like mold, too. “Hanzo in his quarters now?”

“He is.” Athena is serene. “I trust you will not need directions.”

With a sigh, McCree surveys his room on last time. He has no knickknacks, his walls are bare, and the closet and desk haven't been touched by water, so his clothes and everything he needs for Peacekeeper remain in good condition. Barring his ruined bedding, he probably only has to wait for the water to dry for the room to be livable again. “I'll put the sheets, the duvet, and the pillow outside now, shall I? Better get rid of them now before the stench sets in. And I don't appreciate that dig about givin' me no directions.”

“Make sure to dispose of them in the recycling chute, if you please, and head down the hall to your left.”

*

It's a good ten minutes through the Watchpoint to get to Wing 5. It's been more than a year since the Recall _—_ this is their second Christmas, and how could he have forgotten that Genji and Zenyatta usually spend it together _—_ but swathes of the Watchpoint still lie disaffected and unused. They are not so many, the Watchpoint is large and old, and it is rare for everyone on active duty to have downtime simultaneously: this means that they've prioritized the med bay, the kitchen, the break room, two meeting rooms, and the training grounds in Wings 2 and 3, the closest ones to the hangars. Everything else is secondary, and it shows.

When Genji turned up with Hanzo, the man had picked his quarters to be the furthest away from Genji as possible. With Wing 4 still a no-go, Hanzo had asked Winston for access to Wing 5, which used to house mechanics and spare rocket parts. It's not a part of the Watchpoint McCree is familiar with (not that he was familiar with Watchpoint: Gibraltar at all, what with Blackwatch being kept apart from the more savoury members of the Overwatch organisation), but he still feels a niggle of shame that he isn't able to locate Hanzo's room without the help of Athena.    

“The farthest door to your right, Agent McCree.”

“Yeah, yeah. The hell am I doin'...” McCree mutters to himself as he raps on Hanzo's steel door. He's tried to convince himself to double back the entire time that Athena was leading him here, but he's got to be honest with himself. It's Christmas day. He's cold, he's bones tired, he's dirty. His quarters are fucking flooded. His mechanical arm is grinding with all the hellish Algerian sand trapped in its gears. He's possibly shipping back out before the new year, because goddamn it but terrorists love the holidays. So sue him if he just wants some good company.

The door slides open, and on the other side, the dark circles under Hanzo's eyes greet him first. “McCree?”

“Howdy, Hanzo.” McCree smiles sunnily. “I'm guessin' Athena didn't give you a heads up. My quarters _—_ all of Wing 3's quarters are flooded. Angela's with Genji, Lena's in Angela's room, Lúcio and Hana are in the break room, Torbjörn and Reinhardt both snore like you wouldn't believe, Zenyatta's in Genji's room, and Athena won't let me use the training room for a nap.”

It takes a moment, but then Hanzo's eyes narrow. “Athena told you I had a futon.”

McCree winks. “I can neither confirm nor deny. But more seriously _—_ ” McCree drops his sunny pretense, because it is too tiring to hold on to at the moment. “I'd be mighty grateful for a use of your shower, and I'll be happy to be on my way.”

“Don't be ridiculous, cowboy.” Hanzo steps to the side and gestures imperiously for McCree to come in. “Boots off.”

Luckily, McCree's boots and spurs haven't been affected by the water, but as soon as he bends down to work them off his feet, tiredness hits him like a hypertrain. He sways, mechanical hand trying to catch the wall for purchase, but a hand on his shoulder and a knee by his hip steady him. Hanzo pushes him down, and McCree lands unceremoniously on his ass.

“Shit.”

Hanzo crouches next to him, hands on his boots. “And here I thought the desert was your natural habitat. Is there a trick to these?”

“Mechanical latch at the base.” McCree is still feeling the vertigo as Hanzo tugs his boots off. “Thank you kindly. Don't rightly know why _—_ ”

“Is it possibly because of your overuse of the Deadeye? Or maybe the blood loss from the wound in your face?” Hanzo says icily as he helps McCree up.

“Hey now _—_ ”

“Oh no wait, it must be your insistence at running headlong with no cover _directly_ at our enemies.” Hanzo picks up his duffle and slips an arm around McCree, helping him up.

“Whaddya mean, no cov _—_ ”

“I'm sorry, it actually must be because you thought this was a valid tactic multiple times in a row during _the same operation_.”

“You've only ever been sorry once in your life, which is not this time. Anyway, it fuckin' worked,” McCree says, smug. “And you provided me with cover, you ornery bastard.”

“Ornery?” Hanzo hisses, walking them towards the bathroom. “We had no tech, McCree, we weren't even sure that Mercy's Caduceus was going to work!”

“I'm no shrinkin' violet, Hanzo,” McCree says. “Wasn't gonna let the team eat it if I could do somethin' about it. And it was obvious these Talon wannabes were a one-trick pony. It worked out.”

Hanzo dumps him unceremoniously on the toilet seat. “I had no legs, McCree,” he says, voice tight and strangely quiet. “As you say, we were lucky they were a one-trick pony. I'll bring you a towel.”

McCree closes his eyes. _Stepped in it this time_ , he thinks. Instead of grabbing the towel Hanzo hands him, he grabs the man's forearm instead. “You're walking fine now, though. No lasting damage?”

Hanzo doesn't shrug him off, but he still scowls. “Unlike Genji, I can turn my prosthetics off. When I realised what the tech they had was doing, I gambled on my position and disabled my legs.” He pauses, then adds with some effort: “I don't want to do that again.”

“Agreed and understood,” McCree says quietly after a beat. He won't apologise _—_ they were successful. But a successful team is only as good as its members' cooperation and full abilities, and this mission showcased neither. They were damn lucky. “It's still a good thing we secured whatever it is that let them do that,” he continues, pensive. “I'm guessin' Torbjörn'll be on that like white on rice.”

Hanzo snorts. “If he isn't already. I trust you can bathe on your own?”

“Come on now. I'm a mite tired, not dead.”

Hanzo snorts, padding back to his bedroom. “With your appearance such as it is, I fear it is difficult to tell the difference.”

“You're just as dusty as I am!” McCree yells in the direction of the room. He busies himself with getting rid of his kit: he's left his chaps and breastplate in the hangar lockers to deal with tomorrow after the debriefing, but everything else is pretty much a lost cause. The dust in his serape makes him sneeze, and all three of his pants, shirt, and undershirt are goners.

“Move.”

When McCree looks up, Hanzo's down to his underwear. With the ease of a year's practice, McCree tamps down on the bolt of desire that runs through him, and dodges Hanzo as he reaches for the hairbrush on the shelf behind McCree.

“Yeah, yeah.” McCree gets his tool kit out, sits back on the toilet seat to work on cleaning out his arm, and valiantly attempts to ignore Hanzo brushing out his hair. “Goddamn sand.”

“Couldn't agree more,” Hanzo mutters. He steps across to the shower, and for one breathtaking moment, his tightly clothed ass is right by McCree's face _—_ it's a good thing McCree isn't twenty anymore, because he's fairly certain he's already sporting a half chub just from the proximity. McCree releases a controlled exhale as Hanzo sits on a stool in the shower, removes his legs, and puts the privacy screen up.

By the time he's done, McCree's arm is as clean as it's going to get. He gathers his clothes, Hanzo's, and with a ridiculous thrill, Hanzo's underwear, does not put his nose in it like a goddamn dog, and dumps it all in a corner. He runs fingers through his own hair as Hanzo towels himself dry and puts his legs back on, and neither of them say anything as they switch places.

It's… comfortable. McCree absently palms himself in the shower, ass clenching as he does while he hears Hanzo puttering on the other side, but he leaves it there. He never thought he'd be too tired to get himself off, but if the Recall has taught him anything, it's that the first casualty of doing things understaffed on a shoestring budget is satisfying release. Plus, isn't it sort of disrespectful to be getting it on in someone else's shower without their explicit permission? McCree thinks that if he'd had a momma, that's maybe what she would have said.

“I'm too old for this,” McCree sighs as he rinses himself off.

“But at least you're clean.” Hanzo hands him his towel, and it takes him a little bit longer than usual to turn away. Fatigue must be hitting him too, McCree thinks as he fastens his own arm back on and ties the towel around his waist. They're both too old for this.

“'S good to feel human.”

Hanzo laughs, and McCree studiously doesn't look his way. Sometimes he's still blindsided by the open expressions on Hanzo's face, so he's learned to limit his exposure. “Do we still count, with three artificial limbs between us?”

McCree shakes his head with a reluctant smile and grabs Hanzo's hairbrush. “I look like a philosopher to you? Reckon Zenyatta's the better bein' to ask.” McCree sees Hanzo shrug from the corner of his eye, and tries to focus. Hanzo's wearing some sort of belted dressing gown, grey with a white pattern, and his hair is down, grey and black covering his shoulders. He looks soft. “Hair's gettin' long,” McCree says unwittingly. It's better than the three other things he could have said that occurred to him first, but not as good as not saying anything at all.

He doesn't have time to bite his tongue before Hanzo smirks and says, “So is yours.”

And right he is, but McCree won't go down if he can help it. “That's just 'cause it's wet, sug! We can't all have hair that looks the same wet and dry.”

“Hmm, a pity.” Hanzo smothers another laugh and snatches the hairbrush McCree throws at his head.

“Ass. You're gonna take out the sofa bed or not?”

Hanzo cocks his head to the side. “Sofa... bed? I have neither a sofa nor a sofa bed, McCree.”

McCree frowns. “Where d'you want me to bunk, then? Thought you had a futon?”

“A Japanese futon,” Hanzo sighs. “Don't worry, I will take it. You will take the bed.”

“Now hang on a minute _—_ ” McCree follows Hanzo out to the bedroom, watches as he takes out two rolled-up cushions that are basically a too-thin mattress and its cover, and emphatically says, “No.”

Hanzo frowns at him.

“No,” McCree repeats. “I'm not puttin' you out of your bed for you to sleep on the floor of your own goddamn bedroom. I'll take your futon.”

“It's traditional!” Hanzo protests. “And you're not used to it. I will take the futon.”

“No one's sleepin' on the goddamn floor apart from me, Hanzo. I don't care what you say. Not after bein' up for thirty hours and on Christmas day, and in your own goddamn quarters no less.”

Hanzo's eyes narrow. “Then I could say the same for you, McCree. As a host, how can I allow my guest to sleep on the floor after being up for thirty hours and on Christmas day?”

“Don't you use my words against me, you sly bastard. And stop smirkin', I'm onto you.” McCree fishes his underwear, shirt, and sweatpants from his duffle, and drops the towel right then and there, considering Hanzo's busy with his futon. He finishes towelling himself off, get dressed, and run the towel a last time through his hair before he realises everything's gone suspiciously silent. “Hanzo, you all ri _—_ ”

“That is it. We will both use the bed,” Hanzo interrupts. His cheeks are strangely flushed but his head is high and his chin stubbornly up. “Unless you are willing to fold.” For some reason, he's looking right at McCree's ass.

It may be wishful thinking, but McCree hopes he at least gave him a good show. With a snort, he says, “Y'know me better than that. But I'm thinkin' there ain't enough space for both of us in there.”

“I am willing to 'get cozy', as you would say.”

McCree can't stop his sudden peal of laughter. It feels a little bit like hysteria at this particular point _—_ the tiredness is getting to him now that he's clean and warm. “Look, Hanzo. There's no need for this: I'm good with the mats in the training facilities.” He doesn't think he can keep up the charade of being uninterested, not if he's stuck to Hanzo from shoulder to thigh under soft covers, not if they are together in Hanzo's bed.

McCree knows what's important to him, and it isn't fleeting physical relief. It's the strange camaraderie that has developed between him and Hanzo instead, steady and sure over the past eighteen months. It is this slow-burning but solid bond that has somehow grown, first on the field then off, that is different from anything McCree has ever known, possibly because it's based on heavier recriminations and better alcohol.

He wouldn't trade it for anything else.  

“Be quiet, and take the right side of the bed.” Hanzo's voice is low and steady, even as the flush on his cheeks spreads down his neck. “You eat strawberries?”

McCree stands in the middle of Hanzo's room, uncertain, as Hanzo fetches a box on his bare desk. They deserve each other, he thinks dimly: both their quarters are positively spartan, the only things lying around being weapons kits and accessories; both of them are killers, drenched in blood on the inside; and both of them are cowards, tiptoeing around whatever this thing between them is. At least... He's pretty sure they're both aware of the thing.

“I said 'sit'.”

Or maybe McCree's the only coward. “You ain't said to sit, but I'll do it anyways. Your right or my right?” Never let it be said McCree doesn't take the bull by the horns, once he realises the bull's there.

Hanzo scoffs. “Semantics. The side closest to the door, if you please.”

Hanzo silently pads to the other side of the bed, hands McCree a spoon, and opens the box to reveal a perfectly crafted round and white cake with strawberries on the top. “Merry Christmas,” he says as he sits on McCree's other side.

“This the traditional cake you mentioned a few weeks ago?” McCree asks, taken aback. “How'd you even get it delivered? Thought you'd want to share it with Genji.”

Hanzo barks out a single laugh. “I'm not sharing this cake with Genji! Genji has other plans.”

“You mean, apart from being rewired?” McCree's smirk falls when Hanzo fails to take the bait. “Hey, talk to me.”

“As I said, it is not a cake for me to share with Genji anyways. I would _appreciate_ ,” Hanzo bites out, “if you shared it with me.”

“Won't say no to a Christmas treat,” McCree says, as he sinks his spoon on one side of the cake. He's desperately racking his brain for the significance behind the cake. Hanzo mentioned it but McCree was deep into his bourbon, and the conversation escapes him. “And a merry Christmas to you.”

The cake is small, fluffy, and delicious. By the time they're done, Hanzo's flush has spread down his chest, and McCree knows because Hanzo's dressing gown has started gaping at the front, the same way his _gi_ does before he shrugs one side of it off and goes into battle.

There's something about the damn Christmas cake, McCree is sure of it. Damn him for forgetting it.

The tiredness, the comfortable firmness of Hanzo's mattress, and the sugar hit him all at once; his eyes unwittingly close. He feels Hanzo moving the empty box and the cutlery away, and hears him mutter in Japanese as he prods him to lie down. What McCree fears comes to pass: he is warm and safe under Hanzo's covers, and because neither of them are small men, Hanzo is a warm brand all along McCree's left side. At least exhaustion works in his favour, right up until it doesn't.

“Did you just feed me romantic Christmas cake?” McCree wheezes, violently sitting up. “Hanzo, wake the fuck up!” That's what he was fucking missing: Christmas day, Japan's bizarre Valentine's day. Talk about a warped tradition. 

“Americans are so noisy,” Hanzo mutters, turning away from McCree and burrowing into the covers.“Winston wants to see us in fifteen hours, be quiet.”

“You don't know any other noisy Americans, you sneaky bastard. When were you gonna explain the Christmas cake?”

Hanzo retreats further under the duvet. “I already mentioned the significance of the Christmas cake.”

“Yeah, in October! When we were drunk!”

“It is not my fault you don't retain your faculties when under the influence.”    

“Under the… Come out here and tell me that to my face!”

Hanzo suddenly sits up, eyes narrowed and hair disheveled. “You cannot hold your drink, Jesse McCree, and I will win this bat _—_ ”

McCree kisses him. His hand also goes right to Hanzo' pec to tweak his nipple, because there is only so much a man can take when he's just obliviously shared the equivalent of a box of heart-shaped chocolates with a teammate _—_ a _friend—_ he is hopelessly attracted to.

Hanzo shudders, grunts into McCree's mouth, and straddles him to push him down into the sheets. “I cannot believe I had to spell my interest out for you.” Hanzo's kisses are deep and punishing. “How many times did I expose myself to you? You reduced me to taking your boots off and feeding you _cake_ , and even then _—_ ”

“Now that ain't fair,” McCree pants. “I thought you were hot-blooded! Runnin' around almost shirtless all the damn time, even when we were drinkin'.” He runs his hands through Hanzo's hair to pull his down and bucks up, both men groaning into the kiss. “Come on, darlin', move for me.”

Hanzo hisses and sticks a hand down McCree's pants. “Neither of us are as young as we should be, and we both need to sleep. But I will not waste this opportunity.”

“Jesus Christ, Hanzo _—_ ” It takes three wicked pulls on his dick, complete with a wrist flourish, for McCree to go from being pleasantly aroused over the past hour to absolutely _burning_.

“I went along with your hare-brained scheme in Algeria, I wore my yukata for you and fed you Christmas cake, I put you in _my bed_ , McCree, and in the end you went to _sleep_.” Hanzo fumes as he tugs on the shell of McCree's ear with his teeth, bites down the column of his throat to suck at his collarbone, and tightens and quickens his fist around McCree's dick. “I still don't know if I am of a mind to forgive you.”

McCree pulls on Hanzo's hair to get another kiss as his hips jerk into Hanzo's hand. “Fuckin' call me Jesse if you're gonna get me off like that,” McCree gasps. “Call me Jesse and tell me how you feel, straight this time.”

“There's no one straight in this bed,” Hanzo grunts. “I'm appalled you would think so, what with my hands on you.”

“Your mouth, Hanzo _—_ ”

“I'll put it where my hand is if that will fully convince you.”

McCree's eyes roll to the back of his head, full of Hanzo's imagery, and he comes in sharp bursts. Hanzo milks him through his orgasm, continues stroking his dick even after he's done, kissing him deep and slow. “Enough,” McCree says when it becomes too much and he's trembling all over. “C'mere.”

“I don't think I can get any closer,” Hanzo mutters, shifting restlessly against McCree. He wipes his hand on McCree's stomach and tries to wiggle his robe _—_ his yukata, McCree now knows _—_ open, vying for skin to skin contact.

McCree hums and slides both his hands into Hanzo's now gaping yukata, squeezing his pecs on the way. He brings his knees up, forcing Hanzo's thighs further apart, and slides one hand at the back of Hanzo's head and the other at the small of his back. “C'mon, rub off on me like you mean it.” He pushes Hanzo down, feels Hanzo's dick trail through his smeared and slowly cooling release. Hanzo's breath hitches as McCree pushes him forward and he starts moving, slow and sinuous, heavy exhales muffled into McCree's neck. “That's it, baby,” McCree croons. “That's it, Hanzo, come on. Jesus, you know how long I've wanted you like this? Every time you parade around with your tit out, I wanna get my hands on you, wanna get my mouth on you _—_ ”

“How unprofessional,” Hanzo pants, speeding up.

“You filthy liar, tell me you don't want me to wear my Stetson to bed,” McCree says, chuckling as Hanzo tries to hold back a sudden moan. “I can wear my chaps and my hat next time, if that's what you want. _Just_ the chaps and the hat.” McCree's mechanical hand moves from the small of Hanzo's back to rub at asshole and press his metal fingers hard under his balls. Hanzo bucks against him, shudders, and comes with a surprised gasp. McCree holds his hips and rocks him through it, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. He pats Hanzo's ass when he's done, and looks for Hanzo' mouth to pepper it with short, shallow kisses. “Tell me you're gonna call me Jesse now.”

“You ruined my yukata, Jesse,” Hanzo tells him in between kisses, his breath still a little short.

“It's cotton, I know it can be washed.”

Hanzo rises onto his elbows to send McCree a quizzical look. “I didn't realise you knew so much about laundry.”

McCree smirks.“It's a steep learning curve, when a teammate decides to continuously disrobe to fight.”

“It is for mobility!” Hanzo says, outraged, but then just melts against McCree when McCree sinks both hands into his hair and pulls him down for another kiss.

“How long were you gonna wait, if I hadn't remembered the meaning of the Christmas cake?” McCree says after a while, when they are both sporting what he believes is the appropriate amount of beard burn.

Hanzo hums against McCree's lips. “I was going to switch to wearing no _gi_ at all,” he says sleepily. “And look into Valentine's day. You hopefully shouldn't have needed an explanation for that, and I figured both my nipples would push you over the edge.”  McCree splutters. “Now be quiet. We have fourteen and a half hours left before the debrief, and we should fuck before that. Terrorists work over the new year.”

       

 


End file.
